dragonballfanonfandomcom-20200213-history
Sink to the Bottom
Sink to the Bottom is a collaborative story by KidVegeta and Destructivedisk. It features the exploits of Yamcha between the Pink Shirt and Cell sagas. The story's theme is Sink to the Bottom by Fountains of Wayne. Chapter 1: Denial "A friends a friend who knows what being a friend is talking with a friend. As friends we were always so close but so far away Friends in life are special do you want me as your special friend? Cause you're the friend that I've been searching for" -Friends by Ween - An Ode from Destructivedisk to KidVegeta It was over. It was all over. Yamcha knew not where he was going. His old life was dead and gone - he remained, his heart was still beating, but everything else was dead and gone. He found himself in the desert. He did not know how long he had been there for, but he was sure it couldn’t have been for longer than half a day. He felt like he was on autopilot, his remote body operating apart from his mind. His body seemed to be looking for something: perhaps solace, perhaps revenge. Bulma was gone. All the teenaged love, all the young, delirious fantasies, it was all gone. He hadn’t liked Vegeta from the second that he had set foot on Planet Earth. To Yamcha, the whole situation was surreal, Kafkaesque even, that the man who had once murdered his friends and attempted to destroy the Earth was now sleeping in the bed of his lover. The prince had usurped Yamcha’s throne, stealing the crown from atop his head and burning down the bed of trees that Yamcha slept on. Before Yamcha had even smelt the smoke, the forest was no more than ashes and he was left lying on the ground. The old world was gone. A small gust of wind, followed by a brief puff of sand, caught Yamcha’s attention. He looked to his right and noted that the sun had begun rising. Yamcha stopped, realizing that he had no idea where he was going. There he was, lost in the middle of the desert. In some ways he felt like he had, at last, come home - in other ways, he felt as though he were a young boy leaving home for the first time. Yamcha knew that he should have seen it coming. Bulma had been acting disinterested for the better part of a year, showing him progressively less and less attention. Her absences had been unsettling - many a night were spent wondering where Bulma had gone, and when she would be coming back. Yamcha might have been able to take it if she had left him for anyone else, but he could not handle Vegeta. Vegeta made Yamcha feel weak, like he didn’t matter. Vegeta was the antagonist who had become the hero, and Yamcha had essentially been set aside, shifted from a starring role to an ancillary one. Had Bulma forgotten about how Yamcha had bested the invisible man, how he had protected her throughout their many travels? Did she think that Vegeta would be around to protect her when trouble struck again? Yamcha knew he could win her back if he just showed her the folly of her ways. All he had to do was reach out and she could become his again. She only wanted to try out Vegeta; she didn’t truly want to leave Yamcha. All Yamcha had to was prove to her again that he was worth, that he could fulfill her more than Vegeta ever could. It wouldn’t be so hard. He walked back to his car, reaching for the half-empty bottle of Red Stag he knew lay on his seat. Finding it, he pressed the cold bottle to his lips and drank. Yamcha sighed and then awkwardly fell into his seat. Feeling the old scar which wore along his cheek, he sat there as the sun started to rise higher in the sky. How could Bulma fall for Vegeta? It sickened him every time he thought about it. He needed to show her that he could be strong too – that he had some small worth left in the world. His idea had to work. She only liked Vegeta because he was so strong. Well, Yamcha could be strong too. That he knew. He took another drink and slammed the pedal to the floor. The desert turned into a nebulous streak of colors as he sped on. He didn’t care how fast he was going, how reckless he was driving. Yamcha was racing to get Bulma back. His first order of business was to show her how strong he was, how much his training had done for him. He knew it was when Vegeta had first come to Earth when he lost her. It was the moment the Saibaman had jumped on him, the moment it had killed him – before he could do anything– that Bulma had turned away. And how could he blame her? He had been absolutely pathetic in that moment. But he was better than that now. Yamcha took another gulp from his bottle just as he saw the city come into view. He blinked his moist eyes furiously to maintain his position on the road as he got nearer. He didn’t want any police on him. But as soon as he thought that thought, he forgot. The former bandit dodged cars like he dodged punches, weaving in and out of spots of traffic, sometimes driving on the wrong side of the road, sometimes flying over the roofs of parked vehicles. As he went careening through a red light, making a sharp left turn around a group of awe-struck teenage girls (whom he did take a peek at, if but for a moment), Yamcha saw it. Slamming his foot onto the brakes, he stopped the car in the middle of the road and jumped out, racing towards the building ahead of him. It wasn’t truly a building so much as a construction site. The entire thing was surrounded by yellow and orange barrier signs, heavy equipment, and a multitude of construction workers. They were milling about, smoking cigarettes and laughing at jokes when Yamcha came screaming in like a wind from the north. But he was not here for them. A small banner draped over the edge of the nearest fence, which read “World Tournament COMING SOON” was what had drawn him. He had seen it before, whilst traveling through the city the past few weeks. But now, it held great interest to him, for Yamcha would need the World Tournament to get Bulma back. “H-hey guyysss…” Yamcha slurred as best he could, “w-whhersda tourney’ffical?” He received no replies. Indeed, some of the workers had already turned their shoulders to Yamcha so that they could return to their precious jokes and nicotine. Yamcha’s blood boiled. He hated construction workers. All they did was play god all day by closing down traffic lanes and making his life more inconvenient. Well, not this time! “H-hey motherfuckas… lookatdis!” Yamcha spit, wobbling a bit. In his hand was a blue energy ball. The crowd of construction workers turned and looked at him. They glanced him up and down, noticing nothing terribly peculiar or unusual about him. Then, with a great collective gasp, they noticed the wobbling energy ball in his hand. In unison, the workers stumbled backwards like a wave of people, several of them fleeing the scene and few others remaining put out of shock. Yamcha chuckled, and tossed the energy ball into the air. He caught it once more and then he rolled it around on his palm, soon transitioning it to his finger and spinning it about. The crowd of people was perplexed – nobody moved, but many came to believe him to be a street performer. Not but a second later, Yamcha lost control of the ball and it flew several feet. It hit the ground and made a small crater, blowing puffs of smoke in every direction. The crowd soon lost interest in Yamcha, who continued to make new energy balls and play with them for several consecutive minutes. In his drunken stupor, Yamcha lost track of his objective, and instead stumbled around for a couple minutes and played with his energy balls. Before long, Yamcha too lost interest in this game, and he performed a full rotation about himself. Several hundred yards away, Yamcha spotted a great large advertisement, supported by a monolithic column. The letters on the sign were illuminated in neon, pink and green, and could likely be spotted for miles. Next to the letters there was a light-up martini glass, so enticing and so glorious. The words read “On the Rocks”, words to which Yamcha was no stranger. He was no novice to the drinking game – he knew a bar when he saw one. In a flash, Yamcha took off toward the bar, evidently disappearing. He entered the bar with great glee, for he thought that his buzz was soon to wear off (in reality, he would have blown a .27). Yamcha took a seat at the barstool, gesturing for the bartender. Faintly, then, from the furthest reaches of the bar, Yamcha heard a voice echo out. It was a strong voice, one meant for news stations and for telebroadcasting, a voice filled with bravado and greatness. The voice was faintly familiar to Yamcha, one that he knew he had heard before but one that he couldn’t quite place. The voice rang out: “I… I need annathadrink”. Yamcha turned his head and craned over. He recognized the source of the voice, below the grime and the vomit, and knew it to be the Tournament Announcer Guy. Yamcha, in a brief moment of clarity, knew that this was a figure central to his primary objective. He gestured away the bartender who had finally come to Yamcha’s side, and walked over to take a seat next to the Announcer. “Hee-eeey! Rememmer me?” Yamcha shouted to him. The Announcer looked Yamcha over, and soon his eyes filled with glee. In drunken joy, the Announcer reached out and hugged Yamcha. “O’course I member you! Yoou’re th’arterfinalist!” Yamcha, shocked that anybody would remember his few accomplishments, hugged back with great vigor and strength. “Wha brings y’here?” Yamcha asked after the two had parted each other’s arms. Yamcha had never quite viewed the Announcer as someone who had a life independent of the World Martial Arts Tournament, let alone someone who would patronize a bar in his spare time. “Fuckin Secretarrry, blamin me fer all her problems...” the Announcer responded. “Whaddaya mean?” “Well, ferst, I go’n’hire the broad, ‘n’ she works fer me fer a couple o’ years… then, next thang ya know, I’m bein litigated against for sessual ‘arassment, ‘n’ the tourn’ment’s threatenin to take away my ann’ncing priv’ledges, and I ain’t quite sure where I’m at.” Yamcha was taken aback. All this new knowledge was astounding to him – first it turns out that his favorite announcer might have alcohol problems, and then it becomes known to him that he was falsely framed for sexual harassment! Yamcha could strike a parallel between the Announcer and himself. They had both been wronged by a woman, and now they had nothing left to live for. Of course, Yamcha didn’t see that quite yet – all he knew was that bitches were crazy, and that it was time to right the wrongs they had committed. “Well, hoo needs any tourn’ments anneeways?” Chapter 2: Anger "You are my best friend in the world. And I hope that you know, when we hangout together, it's freakin' awesome. -BFFF by Bowling For Soup - An Ode from KidVegeta to Destructivedisk “Fuck ‘em” The alcohol had amplified and encased Yamcha in a single emotion – revenge. He wanted and he craved so desperately to get back at Vegeta. But that was no small task. Vegeta could merely look at him and kill him. No, Yamcha wasn’t going to challenge the prince. He was going to do the next best thing. With an air of importance far beyond his years and temperament, Yamcha stood up and slammed his glass on the table, sending drops of sweet, sweet whiskey flying in every direction. Fuck it. “Lessgetter back, bro!” he managed to wheeze out of his momentarily alcohol-deprived throat. “Whaddya mean, Yumcher?” the Announcer asked before coughing furiously into his sleeve. “Ain’t gonna ssstand fora bisch like that! Come on, bud! Wee g-got this!” The Tournament Announcer, kami rest his soul, looked utterly perplexed, like he had just been slapped in the face with a finely preserved coelacanth and lived to taste the cider. But nevertheless, he got up and followed Yamcha, as the once-proud martial artist stumbled out of the bar. The light pierced their eyes like Bulma pierced through Yamcha’s soul, and he hated it more than anything for that moment. Then, his eyes adjusted and he forgot all about it. “Where’s her car, man?” The Tournament Announcer shrugged. “I dunno, iss ‘round here somewhere… look in the parking lot. I think iss a baby blue sedan or something.” “Only a lying bitch would drive that piece of shit!” Yamcha declared to the pigeons watching him from the top of the buildings. The Announcer agreed. So the two of them crossed the street and ran through the traffic with a carefree, wild disconnect with the world that could only be compared to that of an expert Frogger player’s skill. They dodged hovercars and hoverbikes like they were nothing. And upon reaching the other side, they both threw up in unison. It was a beautiful moment of bonding. The two spent the better part of the day looking through the parking lot for a baby blue sedan. It must have been their drunken stupor that kept them from seeing it parked in a VIP space right in front of the building. As the alcohol wore off, their tunnel vision started to dissipate like fog in the mid-afternoon. And they beheld that baby blue sedan. Yamcha felt anger well up in his throat just looking at it. He’d never met the woman. He didn’t even know if the Tournament Announcer was telling the truth about her, but she was his mortal enemy. This secretary would get what she had coming to her. The Tournament Announcer took out his keys and, with a grin on his face, keyed the sedan. Yamcha took out his knife, which he always kept in his trusty left sock, and slit all of the tires. The emotional release at being able to do something, being able to enact revenge on a bitch was a moment of bliss in the bandit’s cold, depressed life. After they were done, Yamcha stood up and looked at what else he could do. After elbowing the windows out, he didn’t see much else. But this put him into a panic, a sort of hysteria. He needed to feel good. He couldn’t go back to that depression he felt creeping up in his heart. So Yamcha created an energy ball of so fine a strain that even Goku would have been proud. He held that ball between his hands, feeling its warmth, its bright light reflecting off of his sallow skin. “Heyyyy, watch this!” And he threw that ball, he did. It hit the sedan and exploded, creating a whirlwind of fire and metal and asphalt. The Tournament Announcer fell back, shrieking like one of Myrrah’s shriekers. But even he had a gleam in his eye, a little spark of rebellion. Yamcha saw this and felt like he could open up even more to his newfound friend. “Ssso wwhereser ‘ouse? Less burn it down, ok?” he mumbled, wobbling in place a bit. “Ya know wwhere 5th street is? Iss just ‘bout a mile down thataways...” the Tournament Announcer responded. “It’ll take no time at’ll ta get therrre,” Yamcha replied, grabbing hold of the Announcer. “Check dis out, mann,” he exclaimed, taking flight. The two went flying through the air, the Tournament Announcer the Lois Lane to Yamcha’s Superman. Yamcha flew unusually low to the ground, having to dodge a variety of trees and buildings on the way. He performed a great number of back-flips and barrel rolls, much to the delight of the Announcer. The dynamic duo laughed and chuckled while in flight, before they soon came to the woman’s house. “Dis iss itt!” the Announcer announced when they came to the secretary’s house. It was a home fit for a bitch – the curtains were a hot pink and the window panes were a marvelous blue color. In short, the designer was evidently from Whoville, for no normal human could have designed a house so absolutely tacky. “Braacee yerself!” commanded Yamcha, who, faster than a speeding bullet, sent the two of them spiraling through the bitch’s window. Shards of glass exploded in every direction, and the duo came barreling into her bed, shattering the bed frame on impact. “So, how’re wee gonna burn this bitch down? I dun havany gasoline,” asked the Tournament Announcer. He stood up with a small pool of blood forming in his mouth. “Lemme take care o’ that, sir,” Yamcha replied. “But firsttt,” he began, before trailing off and making his way downstairs, the Announcer right behind him. He came across the kitchen and began scouring the cabinets. He acquired several bottles of hard liquor along with a box of matches. “Holdd these,” he requested of the Announcer, handing him several bottles of the liquid. “Less go outside.” The two of them went outside, bottles of liquor and the box of matches in tow. Yamcha lit a match and proceeded to throw it at the house. It burnt for a moment, before fizzling out against the hard bricks. “Whyyy ain’t it workin?” he asked, perplexed. The Announcer, too, shrugged in confusion. Yamcha lit another match and threw it against a different brick in the wall, hoping that this one would be flammable. To his dismay, he had no luck. “Well, maybeee thesse matches are just duds,” Yamcha concluded, throwing the box away. Yamcha rose into the air, straight up, and began to form a great energy ball. He tossed it at the house, watching it collide with the wall and make a small dent. It wasn’t enough. Yamcha momentarily considered making one of those big balls with all the energy of galaxy that Goku always made, but figured that there weren’t enough people to contribute to it. As a compromise, he instead molded his hands into the proper formation for a Kamehameha, and went with that instead. He spent moments upon moments accumulating the energy for it, and, with a fantastic grunt, released it onto the house. The building came crumbling down, till naught but a few bricks remained. “Woohoo! Aaawwright!” the Tournament Announcer shouted, clearly pleased. “Now, whaddawe do with all this liquor?” “Haha, siddown mayne, siddown! Less watchit go!” Yamcha said before falling backwards onto the ground. He sat up a moment later and uncorked one of the bottles. Whilst drinking fiercely from the bottle, he threw another one to the Announcer. The man in black caught the bottle with the hands of a god and then started drinking as well. He sat down, marveling at what Yamcha had done so easily. I mean, it’s not every day a regular human sees a house explode. The two pyrofanatics sat there, drinking and watching the ruined house burn. For some time, they sat in silence, ignoring the panicked screams and shouts from neighbors, people in the background petting cats, and pedestrians alike. Yamcha loved it. They had got that bitch good. He half-wanted to stay there until she got home just to see the look on her face, but their booze ran out far before that could happen. When their bottles ran dry, the two stood up and walked off down the sidewalk. With every step Yamcha took, his mind became clearer, more focused. And soon he remembered what he had come to the World Tournament in the first place. He wanted to win back Bulma. “‘ey man, we gotta make a tourney y’know?” Yamcha said, he voice rising so high that even Thom Yorke would be proud. The Announcer was fiddling with his sunglasses and then threw up. He didn’t even hear Yamcha. He didn’t give a fuck. “Yo, tourney!” Yamcha bellowed, shaking the very trees that dotted the sidewalk around them. “I can announce onnados!” The sunglass-faced man shouted with glee, his face shining scarlet from his intoxication. “Buuuuut we haven’t had one since Goko and Pickaloo! They ddestroy’d the place, you ‘member?” Yamcha stopped. When he spoke again, he hunched over and swung his arms like he was talking at a bonfire. “Nah, man, nah! Fuck all that noise! We’ll juss make ou’own!” “Iono, man, that’ll be alotta work!” “Hey, shut up!” Yamcha screamed before throwing up. “I gotta get Bulma back. Thissis the only way! You gotta help me, man! I helped you get your bitch back now you gotta help me get mine.” The Tournament Announcer looked down, sighed, and threw up a little in his mouth. Yamcha watched him stumble about as he was trying to formulate thoughts in his self-induced narcosis. Finally, as fire trucks came roaring by, their sirens blaring and hurting the two men’s ears (which Yamcha briefly thought about destroying before forgetting that fire trucks even exist), he was roused. “Alright, Yumucha, I’ll helpyu. Lemme call my peeps and set dis up, kay? You better find some competititititors cause you know everybody, kay??” Yamcha nodded and threw up. He’d get some competitors. But he wouldn’t invite Goku, or Krillin, or Tien, or any of the others. He needed to win the tournament, so his opponents had to be weak. He wanted some of those buff guys who went to every tournament but were really weak as shit. They would do nicely. Seeing Yamcha triumph over perfectly toned muscles would make Bulma so wet and impressed, that she would fall for him at once. Yamcha threw up and then walked off, leaving the Announcer to his phone and empty bottles. Chapter 3: Bargaining "You are such a blessing and I won't be messing with the one thing that brings light to all of my darkness You are my best friend and I love you, and I love you Yes I do" -My Best Friend By Weezer - An Ode From Destructivedisk to KidVegeta Soon after the two had resolved to create a new tournament, the bandit and the announcer found themselves aimlessly wandering around the neighborhood. “We needa base o’ operations,” Yamcha declared, scanning around to get a view of his surroundings. “Oh right.” The Tournament Announcer silently contemplated the options for a moment, spinning around on one foot. “Wee can use my house,” the Announcer replied. Yamcha nodded. “Wheresit at?” The Announcer pointed to a far off location, and the two took off in the air with great haste. Within minutes, the two had arrived at the Tournament Announcer’s home, and Yamcha was amazed at how elegant and spacious the house was. Even more shocking to Yamcha was the abundance of alcohol found within the many cabinets of the kitchen, along with 6-9 dragon dildos. He was pleased, and he found himself ready to get to work at last. “I’ll doo the fightas, and you cen take carre of the tourn’ment?” Yamcha asked of the Tournament Announcer. “You betcha.” The Tournament Announcer began walking away, ready to get to work on his half of the deal. After a moment, though, he turned back and exclaimed, “I’m going to get the bad-assest stage the world’s eva seen!” Yamcha responded to this with the most enthusiastic fist pump he had ever mustered. Yamcha pulled out his cellular telephone and began to search through his list of contacts. He knew that the tournament could only feature the most pathetic fighters the world had to offer, for otherwise there was a chance that one of them could best the desert bandit. Yamcha glanced through the list. It took some time before Yamcha could settle on who to invite. His first thought was Master Roshi, but he was a bit afraid of Master Roshi’s 100% power form and concluded that he was a bit too fearsome to invite. He momentarily considered inviting Puar, but decided that Puar’s ability to transform added too great an element of uncertainty for Yamcha to risk it. The same went for Oolong. He was unable to make up his mind about Yajirobe, and ultimately decided to wait until later to make a final decision. However, before too long, Yamcha’s eyes settled upon the perfect fighter to invite. He would be the first of many, but Yamcha knew that he was just pathetic enough to invite to his tournament. There was literally nobody that Yamcha was more confident of his superiority over. He clicked the contact and eagerly pressed down on the call button, swooping the phone up to his ear with great haste. A few moments later, the phone was finally answered. A small, meek voice from the other end said, “Hello?” Yamcha was elated. “Chaozu, old buddy-o boy! Whass goin’ on?” Chiaotzu was silent for a moment. “Yamcha, are you drunk again?” Yamcha barely even noticed the mime’s jabs. He yelled out, “Chaozu! I need you to partacapate in my tourn’ment! I think ya can win it!” “Yamcha, please stop. Go take a nap.” “Now, now, Chaozu, I know that ev’ryone else thinks you’re a weak-ass, weird little mime guy, but I’ve always sorta thought ya were cool. I know you’re stronger than ya look, and I’m sure thar are people out thar you can beat!” Chiaotzu’s only response was silence. Before too long, Yamcha came to realize that Chiaotzu had hung up. Yamcha was dismayed that his little mime friend had hung up on him, and he poured himself a glass of wine to calm himself down. Before long, Yamcha forgot about his first conversation with Chiaotzu, and decided it was high time to call him again. “Chaozu! Buddy ol’ boy! Willya be in my tourn’ment?” “Yamcha, I think you need help,” Chiaotzu replied softly. “Tien and me can come over-” “No! No no no no no no no!” Yamcha bellowed. There was silence for a moment. “A-are you sure, Yamcha?” “Lookee, man, I juss needya ta be aparta my tourn’ment!” Yamcha said. He could hear the silence coming on once again, so he decided, as desperate as he was, to employ the most famous tactic of the common bitch. He cried. “P-p-please m-man!” he stuttered, tears flowing down his cheeks as he spoke. They tasted like alcohol. “Y-y-you gotta h-help m-me! I’ll even make sure wee got some tenshindong fer you to eat! I need someone and you’re my bessfriend and… and…” His voice devolved into a bunch of cries and sniffles. For a moment, he didn’t know if it had worked. So he kept up the crying; and he found that, in his drunken state, it came to him quite easily. Perhaps Chiaoztu was consulting with Tien. That wouldn’t surprise him. The two were inseparable, like an old married couple (and he imagined their sex to be just as disgusting, though he couldn’t stop thinking about it and how it would work). There was also the awkward notion that Yamcha hadn’t invited Tien – really, that was because Tien would beat the living shit out of him should they ever duel in the tournament. So could Chiaotzu manage to come alone? He sure hoped so. Getting back Bulma depended on it. Then, he heard a sigh. Yamcha’s heart leapt into his throat, giving him a sensation close to that of an orgasm. Of course, he would never admit to Chiaotzu that the little clown had just made him feel that good. He hiccupped and then threw up. Even as Yamcha was ridding his body of poisonous alcohol, Chiaotzu spoke again, and his voice was much more compassionate than before: “All right, Yamcha. I’ll be there. Where’s it at?” “I’ll sendya the address in a text, buddy-o,” Yamcha replied with remarkable calm, considering he was spitting bile and vomit from his teeth. They said their goodbyes, and Yamcha hung up. As soon as he did, he wiped his eyes and nose, and glanced around for the nearest bottle of alcohol. Upon finding it, he threw it at the wall and let out a long, extended ‘whooooooooooooooooooo!!’. From the other room, he heard a follow-up ‘whoooooooooooo!’ come from the Tournament Announcer. Yamcha nodded in approval. Through begging like a woman would, he had gotten his first entrant into the tournament. Fuck yeah. Yamcha didn’t have to resort to such emotional prostitution for any of the others he called up. For King Chappa, Bacterian, Heroic Hambone, Ranfan, Beaver Cleavage, Giran, Gregor, Man-Wolf, Sergeant Pepper, Pamput, Laughing Boy, Beric Dondarrion, Master Bruce, and Kiss of Meth, he only needed to tell them it was a tournament and that there were going to be cameras there. The prize would be a billion zeni and a six pack of beer. Of course, since Yamcha was going to win, he wasn’t actually going to pay anyone that kind of money or give them his precious alcohol. They could keep them dreaming, though. Including Chiaotzu and himself, there were now sixteen entrants into his super awesome tournament. Yamcha was ecstatic. It was all coming together. “Yamcha! Yamcha!” The Tournament Announcer came rushing into the room, partially slipping in a puddle of vomit on the way in. “I’ve gottus a stage to fight awn!” “Awright! I’ve gottus sixteen partacapents!” The duo embraced each other, squeezing one another tightly and wholesomely. Yamcha asked, “Wheresit at?” “I gottus a gig in West City. I talked ta the press, ‘n’ they’ll be thar too!” The two jumped around like giddy school girls, and the new movement made both of them vomit up a little bit of alcohol. “The fuckin’ stage has dragons on it, man!” “This calls fer a drink!” Yamcha declared, to the excited yelps of the Tournament Announcer. He entered the kitchen and got a bottle of vodka, smashing it against the side of his head and drinking the trails that fell down his face. He was going to win Bulma back after all. It was then, though, that Yamcha noticed a small pair of handcuffs, padded with purple leather, lying on the Announcer’s kitchen counter. “Hey, mr. Announcer, whattare these fer?” Yamcha asked, holding up the pair of handcuffs. The Announcer entered the room and took a good look at the device. He thought about it for a moment, and then, in a great flash of insight, it came to him. After checking the clock, he declared, “Oh shit! I gotta court meeting ‘bout the sessual ‘arassment lawsuit in half a’ hour!” “Relax! We can getcha thar in ten minutes!” “Yamcher, you dun understand! I dun have a lawyer!” Yamcha and the Announcer stood there for several minutes. This was a seemingly inescapable predicament. It was then that Yamcha realized what he had to do. He had an obligation to his good friend, who had given him a tournament. It was time to repay him for that. “I’ll repr’sent ya. I’ll be ya lawyer,” Yamcha stated, turning around to face the door. “Ya mean it? You’ll do that fer me?” the Announcer asked. Yamcha turned around and gave the Announcer a reassuring thumbs up and a smile. Yamcha leaned over and instructed the Announcer to grab on to his back. It was gonna be a rough flight. The two shot through the air with great speed. Yamcha’s flight was not steady, and he wavered wildly through the air. He dodged a great number of trees and building and only crashed into a few. The Tournament Announcer, a man who was excellent with directions, showed them the way to the court house with great accuracy. He even knew all the shortcuts. They made it there with time to spare, meaning that they stopped at the gas station beforehand and bought (and consumed) a six-pack first. After that detour, though, they finished their flight. The duo entered the courthouse. The press had flocked to the courthouse, and the two were barraged with photos and questions as they entered. It did not occur to them that they were the only two people in the building who were not wearing suit, and they also forgot to clean the bile off of their clothes. Regardless, their cause was noble, and it was time to exact justice upon the whorish secretary who had brought up the charge. The two found their seats before long. Across the aisle sat the Tournament Announcer’s former secretary, with her legal staff and variety of supporters. Yamcha spat vaguely in her direction as a show of disrespect, which she responded to with a confused and inquisitive look. The judge began the formal proceedings. “On this here day, the Tournament Announcer has been charged with class three sexual harassment, quid pro pro sexual favors, a class C felony…” “Objection!” the Tournament Announcer yelled out. “What?” the Judge replied, stunned. “I didn’t do that!” the Tournament Announcer explained. The Judge stopped for a moment, and then continued. He would explain courts to the Announcer later – first, the indictment had to occur. Yamcha’s attention soon waned, and he stopped paying attention to the list of charges. He had forgotten where he was until he was asked to make opening statement, to which he, startled, stood up and took the podium. He looked out over the crowd in the courtroom. Boy, there sure were a lot of people! Yamcha hiccupped nervously, but then decided he could handle it. Yamcha, after several minutes of nervous coughing, finally began. “My client, the Tournament Announcer, is a good fuckin’ man. Uh, me and him, we go way back, and he, uh, he…” It was then that the desert bandit stumbled off on a several minute rant composed primarily of prepositions and conjunctions. Some people, fearing that he was delivering a hate speech, fled the building. After a couple minutes, he left the podium and sat back down. He and the Tournament Announcer fist pounded as he took his seat. Chapter 4: Depression Chapter 5: Acceptance Category:Fan Fiction Category:Collaboration